The first, and least-welcome, guest arrives at noon: Aunt Betsy. As I hug her, I do my best not to wince at her usual smell of dust and mothballs.
“Nicola.” She’s the only one of my relatives who in thirty years has stubbornly refused to let go of my full name. “You’re almost unrecognizable this year; what happened to you?” Then she delivers the first jab. “Have you finally decided it’s time to find a man?” And the second. “Has Julia’s engagement lit a fire under you?”
I force my eyes not to roll. “Actually, this is my boyfriend.” I give Diego a slight push forward.
Earlier, after a brief moment of shock at my merry and bright appearance, Mom decided that this year I looked Christmassy enough to be in charge, together with Diego, of answering the door and welcoming the guests in. Julia is still helping her in the kitchen—more supervising nothing contaminates her precious vegan food. And Paul and Dad are tending the fire.
“Diego, this is my aunt Betsy,” I use the diminutive she hates on purpose. “Aunt Betsy, this is Diego.”
“Elisabeth Appleton,” she corrects, throwing me a displeased look as she shakes Diego’s hand. “Nice to meet you, young man.”
“Diego O’Donnell. The pleasure is all mine, ma’am.”
They shake hands and, even at the ripe age of ninety, I can tell the woman in Aunt Betsy is not insensitive to Diego’s sex appeal.
Unfortunately, she recovers quickly enough from her initial stupor. “So, Diego, what is it that you do?”
“Acting is my calling.”
“Oh.” An evil little smile plays on her lips. “And does that pay the bills?”
“Not much. I work mostly as a server to make ends meet.”
“I see.” Turning to me, she adds, “Your parents must be thrilled to have both their girls settled down.” The malicious glint in her eyes sends a completely different message. In two seconds sharp, she’s nailed the one thing my parents don’t approve of about Diego: his job.
I plaster a fake smile on my lips. “They are.”
“Well,” Evil Betsy continues. “I’m sure we’ll have plenty of time to talk later, Mr. O’Donnell. Now, I need to go sit down. My old limbs are not what they used to be.”
Oh, she’s such a drama queen. She should’ve been an actress, too. Aunt Betsy is the most independent ninety-year-old I know. She drove here in her car, and she’s never needed to use a cane to help her walk in her life. I’m convinced she’s going to bury us all.
“Dad’s in the living room with Paul,” I say. “We’ll join you later.”
We watch her make her way down the hallway, spry as a bunny, and Diego waits for her to disappear around the corner before whispering in my ear, “Are all your relatives this charming?”
“No.” I lean back into him. “You’ve met the worst; it’s all downhill from here.”
As if on cue, the doorbell rings again.
Diego goes to open the door, revealing my cousin Mandy struggling to keep a hold of two huge bags filled with wrapped gifts.
“I don’t know you,” she says to Diego with a cheery smile.
Diego is about to introduce himself when her three boys barrel into the house, screaming like crazed gremlins.
“BOYS!” she yells after them. “How many times do I have to tell you not to ruuuun?”
An ominous crashing noise is the only reply.
“I’m sorry.” Mandy walks past us to run after them. “Nikki, love the new haircut, we’ll catch up later…” And she’s gone, too.
“You were saying?” Diego grins.
“At least she’s nice.”
Mandy’s husband, Peter, comes in next, carrying as many bags as his wife. From then on, it’s a steady flow of people: my dad’s brother, Uncle Tom, with his wife Debra, their kids Michael and Sarah, who are about my age, their spouses and kids; and just as many relatives on my mother’s side. Aunt Betsy’s forty-five-year-old bachelor nephew is the last one to arrive at one o’clock.
There are too many people to have a proper meal all seated at the table—thank goodness—so the Christmas feast is consumed more buffet style. The older crowd takes over the dining room, while us younger folk claim the living room, sitting on the couch, armchairs, or on the pillows Mom has scattered around the huge rug for exactly this purpose. The kids have their reserved dining area set up in the kitchen.
There are about ten of us seated around the Christmas tree, ages ranging from twenty-eight to forty-five. Mom comes and goes, bringing new trays of food which quickly get emptied—except for Julia’s special trays. All the vegan platters are still half-full by the end of the meal, scattered atop the furniture surrounding her. I spot Cousin Michael take a bite of one of her brownish tarts, and discretely spit it into his paper napkin two seconds later. But otherwise, it seems everyone has quickly learned to steer clear of whatever platters Julia is grazing from.
We make it all the way to the mini desserts stage before the questions about my new boyfriend start.
“So,” Mandy asks, “how did you and Diego meet?”
“Through work,” I say, keeping my answer vague, as planned.
“Yeah, you said that,” Julia intervenes. “But how, exactly?”
I launch into our fake narrative. “Diego was auditioning for a commercial I was producing, and when I called him in to tell him he got the part…”
“I told her I’d rather have a date,” Diego ends the story for me.
I love that we appear like one of those couples who can end each other’s sentences. It’s cheesy and soppy, but it’s making me feel all warm and fuzzy, as if what Diego and I are saying was actually true.
Julia arches an eyebrow. “Really?”
Diego casually twirls his finger around a lock of my hair and stares right into my eyes. “Couldn’t let the prettiest producer I’ve ever met slip through my fingers.”
Okay, this is not the lengthy and super-detailed list of all the reasons he wanted to date me I’d asked him to come up with, but strangely, it’s more than enough. It’s the way he says it, and the way he looks at me as he speaks. I’m sold. And so, it seems, is everybody else.
“What was the ad for?” Julia asks.
“Deodorant,” we say in unison, sharing a secret smile.
“MOM!” One of Mandy’s boys—Jarred, Jake, Johnathan, I don’t know, they all have J-starting names—barrels into the room. “I want to open my presents.”
Mandy’s sitting next to the tree. She wraps one arm around his legs and pulls him toward her to kiss him on the cheek. He can’t be older than four or five. “Go call your brothers and cousins and we can all open our presents together.”
“Yaaayyyy,” he yells, running away.
I can’t help but think, Tasmanian devil. How does she handle three of them?
The kids flood into the room shortly after, followed by the old folks. Those of us who were perched on the sofa or armchair leave the more comfortable accommodations to them and find new spots on the rug, so that almost every inch of the living room’s floor is now occupied.
Once everyone’s settled, the complicated gift-distribution operation starts. All the packages under the Christmas tree get passed around, along with the presents my relatives brought with them. We don’t each buy a gift for everybody else—Mom buys the presents for the extended family circle, with one gift per family plus a toy for each of the kids. Still, there are a lot of wrapped boxes passing hands, and delirious quantities of colored paper being torn and scattered around.
I reach into the red-and-white-striped plastic bag where I stuffed my presents for everyone and start handing them out. Now I feel super silly for having spent so much time researching the perfect gift for Paul. Luckily, I didn’t go too overboard with it. He’s still getting a book like everyone else, only a bit more special.
I collect my family’s gifts in return, and am surprised when Diego hands me not one, but two wrapped bundles. One I recognize as the ring box from the mall. The other is a mystery. I tear into that one first.
I push the wrapping paper aside to reveal a hardback copy of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. I flip the cover open, and gasp at the tiny writing printed on the copyright page:
Printed in the U.S.A.23
First American edition, October 1998
I stare up at Diego, astonished. “This must’ve cost you a fortune.”
“Nah.” He shrugs. “Found it in a used bookstore in Brooklyn. I don’t think the owner realized it might have any value.”
Still, I don’t know what to say. I keep looking into his eyes, speechless.
He must read the unasked question in my gaze, because he leans in and whispers in my ear, “Everyone deserves a little surprise at Christmas.”
Before I know what I’m doing, I turn my head to the side and kiss him. A deep, non-PG-rated kiss.
“Ewww,” Sarah’s five-year-old daughter protests. “Mom, they’re kissing.”
I pull back, smiling, and say, “Thank you.”
“You might want to open your other present, too,” Diego says, in a voice so low only I can hear. “Would look a bit suspicious if you didn’t.” He grins at me.
A minute later, I’m pulling on my cat ring when the inevitable happens. From the other side of the fireplace, Paul opens his present from me and exclaims, “Nikki, wow. Liam Grady’s new book.” And then he asks the deadly question. “How did you manage to get a signed copy? I thought those were super rare.”
They are, damn me.
“Oh, really?” I play dumb. “I just picked it up at the store from the new releases booth. Guess I got lucky.”
Next to me, Diego tenses. He knows I’m lying; he was with me when I bought all the other books, and Paul’s book wasn’t among them. Let’s hope he won’t read too much into it.